


No Illusions

by cold_feets



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-24
Updated: 2011-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 00:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cold_feets/pseuds/cold_feets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You knew," Sherlock says, voice muffled against John's shoulder. "You knew this was how it was going to be. I'm going to call you stupid even though you're not, not at all. I'm going to keep things from you, and I'm going to lie. I'm going to do things you don't agree with and leave heads in the fridge and a skull on the mantel and a trail of enemies in my wake. You knew."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Illusions

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Sin ilusiones](https://archiveofourown.org/works/487058) by [Leayn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leayn/pseuds/Leayn)



It's not that it hasn't happened before. Sherlock insults John's intelligence practically on a daily basis, and maybe eight times out of ten, he's in the right because John considers himself a reasonably intelligent bloke, but when it comes to Sherlock he just can't keep up.

It's just the eyeballs in the freezer and the violin at four in the morning for a week straight and the mountain of washing up that John's pretty sure Sherlock doesn't even _see_ even though he passes by it about thirty times a day and the burn on the carpet that showed up last Tuesday _plus_ being called a simple-minded little peon, honestly, how do you even manage to tie your own shoes in the morning and--

"Enough!" John snaps. "Give it a rest."

"--so incredibly thick. You don't--"

It's not even directed at him, really. Well, not him alone. He's rather lumped in with Lestrade and the whole of Scotland Yard and the entire world, simply for not being able to see things the way Sherlock does. But it's the breaking point.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock spins around, finally broken out of his rant, and he narrows his eyes at John. "What?"

"Just stop."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Sherlock sneers, turning back to his notes. "If I stopped, they'd never get anything done over there. How could they possibly miss this? How could _you_ miss this? Aren't you supposed to be clever?"

"Right," John says. "That's that, then."

John grabs his keys from the table, and Sherlock glances back at the noise.

"What? Do you want me to _apologize?_ "

"I should be so lucky. For that, you'd have to actually care about people--"

"I care."

"--you'd have to give a damn about anyone but yourself and--"

"I care," Sherlock says again, and when John chances a look at him, Sherlock is staring at him, unblinking and certain.

"Well, you could try letting on every now and again because the constant barrage of insults is wearing a bit thin."

"Is that what this is? You thought things would change?" Sherlock asks, and something cold enters his eyes, that same shut down of emotion that John sees when Sherlock is on a case, mind working too fast, trying to sort through too much data. He tries not to take it personally. More often than not, Sherlock approaches this thing between them like a case, like some puzzle to be solved, with only one proper solution; he takes in information and tries to find the answer -- the right way to be with someone--as if there's only one way.

"Of course not!" John says. "But--"

"Then what?"

It's the work, and John knows it. It's always a case or lack thereof, and he's used to the moods and the frustration and the temper by now, but he can in fact tie his own shoes, thank you very much, not to mention that inconsequential little medical degree of his.

"Even I have limits, Sherlock," he snaps, snatching up his coat. "They're a bit further down the road than everyone else's, but they _do_ exist. And I've had enough."

He's grateful when Sherlock doesn't try to stop him as he thumps down the steps. Any more, and they'd get to shouting, and neither of them need that. Nor Mrs. Hudson, for that matter. Particularly not when this is about _nothing_ , or at least nothing that John wouldn't be able to deal with in a rational way if he'd had more than a couple of hours of sleep in the past few days. He's killed for Sherlock and nearly been killed himself more times than he can count. Surely, he should be able to handle a few dirty dishes and a handful of insults. But Sherlock's on a case, which means no sleeping, no eating, and not an ounce of sanity between them. John can usually rough it out for about a week; they're going on ten days now.

He learned early on that sometimes the only solution is to just get _out_ for a bit. His feet carry him through the night without a thought, the cold fills his lungs, and a couple of hours later, when he ends up back at the steps to 221B, at the very least most of his anger has dwindled to exhaustion. He makes his way upstairs, surprised to find the flat dark and still, and collapses into bed only to toss and turn for hours.

He hears Sherlock in the hall sometime around three in the morning, about when the violin usually starts. He hears him even though Sherlock barely makes any noise at all when he moves. Years in the military, years of knowing that what you can't hear can kill you, and he gets woken up by a mouse across the street. He stills and listens, half expecting Sherlock to pass by, but he doesn't. There's the telltale squeak of the third floorboard to the left of the door, and then the mattress dips, the sheets lift, and a second later, the brush of fingers against his hip, hesitant, testing. Sherlock's hand settles warm against his side, and John inhales, sharp, ready to tell him off because Sherlock doesn't understand about things like _still being angry_ when it comes to anyone but himself.

But then Sherlock leans in and presses his forehead against the base of John's neck, nose between his shoulder blades.

"Sorry," he breathes.

John swallows the words down, and Sherlock presses closer, eyelashes fluttering against John's skin as they shut. He squeezes John's hip and says it again. "Sorry."

It's not much, but it's more than he expected. And while Sherlock is disturbingly good at faking sincerity, John's just as deft at telling when Sherlock is faking.

"You knew," Sherlock says, voice muffled against John's shoulder. "You knew this was how it was going to be. I'm going to call you stupid even though you're not, not at all. I'm going to keep things from you, and I'm going to lie. I'm going to do things you don't agree with and leave heads in the fridge and a skull on the mantel and a trail of enemies in my wake. You knew."

"I did. And I'm still here, aren't I?"

Sherlock doesn't respond, but John feels the long, shaking breath Sherlock lets out, feels Sherlock's arm curl tighter around his waist. John reaches back, curves his palm around Sherlock's thigh, and tugs him impossibly closer.

"I'm not going anywhere," John tells him. "Did you think--"

"You left."

"For a walk, you idiot!" John says with a laugh, turning a bit to look at Sherlock over his shoulder. Sherlock doesn't seem to see the joke, his face frowning and serious in the light from the hall. "Sherlock. If I did leave, I'd at least pack a case first. I wouldn't just--"

Sherlock pushes himself up on to his elbow and looks down at him with that scrutinizing look of his, trying to slot the pieces into place, trying to find mysteries where there aren't any.

"Don't. Don't do that," John tells him. "It's not a _clue_. It's... I'm saying I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't vanish. And if I ever do disappear, it's probably because of one of those enemies you've left in your wake, so you better damn well come looking for me."

For a moment, Sherlock continues to frown down at him, his eyes searching the lines of John's face for some tell, for the lie, and John lets him because he knows there's none to be found. Sherlock finds or does not find whatever it is he's looking for, drops his mouth to John's, and presses a soft kiss there.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says again, a quiet mumble against John's lips. Three apologies in fifteen minutes. John's not sure he's heard three apologies come from Sherlock in the past _year_. "You know how I get."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it," John tells him, reaching up to brush his hand along Sherlock's cheek, smiling when Sherlock leans into it, eyes closing for a second. "Doesn't mean I have to sit there and take it while you hand down abuse."

Sherlock nods against his palm. "I told you I wasn't an easy man to live with."

"I'm sure I'm not either," John says. "Nothing worth doing is ever easy, eh?"

"Is that what I am?" Sherlock asks, the corner of his mouth curling up. "'Worth doing?'"

"Mmm," John replies, slipping his hand under Sherlock's shirt and sliding his fingers along warm skin. "I could be persuaded."

Sherlock smiles outright for the first time in weeks and kisses him, sliding one leg over John's, lips trailing down over his jaw.

"Solved it, then?" John asks.

Sherlock hums against his throat. "The sister. Hair dye."

"Hair dye?"

"Doesn't matter."

"You're turning down an opportunity to boast?"

Sherlock pushes himself up again and kisses John until he's breathless, long fingers tugging at his hair, their legs tangling together. When they part, John stares up at him a bit dazed, and Sherlock says it again. "Doesn't matter."

And maybe that will change tomorrow, or whenever the phone rings with another case, but for now John's inclined to agree. It doesn't matter. Nothing else does.


End file.
